Soliloquy
by BaskervilleBeauty
Summary: Holmes reminisces about his early days in London. Oneshot, I think.


**Soliloquy**

Author's Notes: This came to me yesterday, without context or plot, so I post it as it poured from my pen. Holmes speaks more than he possibly had in his entire existence, and proves once again (to me, anyway) that he is the most insufferably arrogant creature!

When I first came up to London, I had lodgings in Montague Street, round the corner from the British Museum. I had a room in the house of an old academic, formerly Keeper at the Museum, who still spent his days in the great Library, shuffling ancient manuscripts. Although he did not much care for my habits, which he found peculiar and lacking in focus, he tolerated my presence because I had come recommended to him by a professor at my old university.

To tell the truth, the recommendation had come from a dean so distracted I am certain he did not know who I was; but on the day I came to him to announce that I would be leaving my studies, he inquired where I proposed to go, and upon discovering that I had no direction or contacts, wrote me a letter of introduction. No doubt he thought that any bright young scholar would give his eyeteeth to live in such proximity to an institution as venerable as the British Museum. Indeed, I could easily picture several of my former fellow students cloistering themselves in its vast halls with relish, so eager were they for knowledge of the past. As for myself, I did not have time for that. It seemed to me a fruitless exercise to search for meaning in the stony faces of the statues of gods and men. I found more life, more vigor in the streets of London.

My nervous constitution is such that I have always craved intellectual stimulation. I am unable to apply myself if the subject is uninteresting or irrelevant. You may imagine that this had a detrimental effect on my studies as a boy. When I was young, I forced myself to bear the torture of academic inanity in the hopes of achieving some higher level of understanding that would at last give me access to all the answers I desired. However, when I reached university, I discovered still more of the bleak, distant anonymity of the black-robed professors. I left that school, and joined another. I raged against these men who would not share the knowledge they possessed. I grew to see, however, that they did not have the knowledge I wanted. Instead, I set out to discover for myself what they would not teach me.

I had every confidence in my abilities. If my exam scores were poor, it had been because the wrong questions were asked. But my mind has always been like a vice – I would clamp onto each new fact and hold onto it tightly. I discovered how to make links between these facts and forge them together into a theory. I always had the power of observation; even as a boy, I would see what others were careless enough to dismiss. I knew that this facility would become useful to me.

And so I began in Montague Street, with the old Keeper. There were just the two of us in that house – he a widower, I a bachelor – and so I was free to come and go as I wished, without offending the sensibilities of a wife or daughter. I took advantage of this freedom and roamed all over the city. The entire metropolis seemed open to me. At first, my wanderings were motivated by an inner nervousness, a sort of pent-up energy that demanded release. I walked to relieve this state and to feed my natural curiosity.

During this time, I saw many things. Because I wandered in with no thought of the consequences, because many times the denizens of these places cared not who saw them, or because they wished to be seen, I was able to stock myself with such a repository of human vice and cruelty that the motivations and possibilities of almost any crime no longer shocked me. I learned that some of the very worst sins occur in the most intimate and banal places, and that crimes of simple neglect often destroy far more than the cunning schemes of the malicious.

I entered these worlds armed only with a little money that I had inherited (for the keeper did not demand much in the way of rent) and a gentleman's knowledge of the martial arts. You have seen that I am not a small man, and it was often by rising to my full height that I was able to avoid a brawl by intimidation. Each place I left, however, added to my knowledge and arsenal, until although I did not live like a criminal, I could dress, think and behave as one.

I made no friends in these adventures. Those whom I had helped became allies at best, but the weight of the debt, which they owed to me, precluded them from inviting me into their acquaintance. I did not much care – I had seen them at their worst, when stripped of all the pretence of courtesy and comfort, their souls were laid bare and vulnerable. To return to that polite artifice which guides the everyday seemed empty and hollow; it brought me no comfort. I knew that I was now destined to that life – to bring justice and relief where I could, to right the many wrongs, to make connections in the great chain of life. I had found my calling.

I had no desire to be one of those regular agents, sent out to recover this or that lost good. I knew that I had more to offer. I applied myself vigorously to the study of chemistry, of biology, of philosophy, of history, of crime and passion – in short, of anything that would allow me to reach those who could not be reached by regular means. I could consult in cases which others thought unsolvable. While the cases were frequently a simple matter of evaluating the facts overlooked by others, I was occasionally able to leave my consulting-room and put my skills to practical use.

At about this time, my landlord became increasingly feeble and unwell. He stopped going to the library, putting me and my growing consultancy at some inconvenience. When at last he passed away, I was forced to collect my meager belongings and remove them to a hotel. Needless to say, the situation meant that I was not able to work, and the rent ate into my savings. While money has never much concerned me, the lack of work was tedious. And so, I set out to find rooms that were comfortable, and in a location suitable for the sundry clients I anticipated from different social classes. Once I had found such a place, I required a roommate to split the rent with, and that is when I believe that Fate intervened and blessed me with a companion as faithful and stalwart as Watson. Although he has moved on, the mere memory of the horrors of moving house has kept me in Baker Street for over 20 years.

Watson was not always an easy roommate. He was obliging, certainly – he would discreetly disappear when asked, and he did not object as individuals any man in his station would be leery of tramped through our sitting room. But he had the most appalling lack of faith in my methods at first, and would ask for – nay, demand! – explanations for the most elementary deductions. Though he himself is tended towards some laxness in his personal habits, my little peculiarities seemed to irritate him. He could not understand my scraping on the violin, for instance – he wished me always to play concertos. He tolerated my chemical experiments, but decried their sometimes-explosive results. He deplored (and still does) my moods and failed to understand, though I had warned him, that cajoling me would only make me sink ever deeper into moroseness. It seemed in those days that the only thing we shared was a fondness for tobacco.

But he has proven himself invaluable in our adventures. He documents, he assists, he provides another perspective, and all uncomplainingly. He is, in short a great improvement over my previous situation.


End file.
